


Christians awake, salute the happy morn!

by greerwatson



Series: Christmas at the Clubhouse [11]
Category: RENAULT Mary - Works
Genre: Christmas, Gen, ITOWverse, Metafiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-26
Updated: 2009-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-21 08:25:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6044796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerwatson/pseuds/greerwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a massive Christmas dinner, come the dishes of the morn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christians awake, salute the happy morn!

**Author's Note:**

> This story was posted originally to the [maryrenaultfics](http://maryrenaultfics.livejournal.com) LiveJournal community as a gift to the members for Christmas in 2009.

When the Secretary came down the next morning and walked into the kitchen, she was met by a mountain of dirty dishes.  She deplored the trite phrase; but it was quite as impassable as the Alps in a blizzard, leaving no way to get to the fridge or make herself a cup of coffee. 

No one was around.  Lucy had disappeared home with her husband immediately after Christmas dinner, having organized neither the clearing nor the washing up.  It occurred to the Secretary that they were all accustomed to the service of the Mrs Timmingses of the world:  even Olive probably had a woman who came in for a half day.  And Mrs. Timmings, of course, had long since gone home to her own dinner.

Casting her eyes round, she saw no sign of the machine that she was accustomed to use each day.  The housekeeper had so dominated the kitchen yesterday that the place was still largely appointed in mid-century English.  Grimly, the Secretary made her way to the sink, found the dishwashing liquid, and ran the water until it was hot.  She rolled up her sleeves.

“Oh, but you should not be doing that!”

The Secretary turned round to see Arete.  “Well, _someone_ has to,” she pointed out.  “Dishes don’t do themselves.”

“But there are those whose _place_ it is to do such things.”  Arete looked a bit cross, “In fact they should be here now.”  She turned and left, with a brisk air of competence.  Having no idea what she was on about, the Secretary simply reached for the first plate on the nearest stack.  There had been no mashed potatoes (though the roast ones had been unexpectedly rich and delicious); but gravy had been poured liberally over everything, and the remains now congealed nastily under the bones and bits.  Whoever had cleared the table had not scraped the plates.

Arete returned, flung the door wide, and gestured into the room a parade of people who had certainly not attended the festivities.  They wore garb from several eras, but no one was in anything remotely resembling party clothes.  The Secretary found herself dextrously extricated from the crowd and at the door with Arete, looking at the rapidly organized clean-up crew as they took over the kitchen.  It dawned on her slowly who these people had to be.  She had never seen slaves before.  But, of course, behind the scenes of the historical novels had to be armies of unnamed, unseen workers to clean and cook.

For a moment, guilt overcame her.  Then she looked at the stacks of dishes.  Pragmatism and self-preservation won out.  She and Arete slipped away.


End file.
